


your electric feel

by blanchtt



Category: Carol (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 23:06:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12781593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: Only early spring, the breeze is pleasant but not entirely warm. Refreshing, Carol had said as they had walked down the street yesterday, and cold, Therese had retorted as she had pulled her coat tighter around herself and refused Carol’s offer to lend her her scarf.





	your electric feel

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting a few deleted fics.

 

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

They had bought gauzy white curtains for the kitchen windows, and Therese praises whichever one of them had the foresight to do so. 

 

The kitchen is immaculately clean as Therese steps into it, heading for the coffee maker. There, the counter, free of clutter except for the ever-present jar of sugar and further along, down toward the sink, the bottles of liquor lined up in order of frequency of use; the table swept free of water-rings and crumbs from Rindy’s visit yesterday and the vase in the center full of flowers that have not yet stood in water long enough to be in full bloom; and Carol, sitting at the corner, with a plate of something and a glass of water, and who smiles upon seeing her. 

 

It gives her a thrill every time she sees it, even now. Therese starts a pot of coffee, opens a cupboard and retrieves a mug which she places on the counter within reach, and turns around, settles with the small of her back against the marble, arms crossed.

 

“You’re up early,” Carol says, putting her fork down on her plate. It’s teasing, and she pushes the dish away, sits back in her chair to better speak with her and crosses a leg, hands in her lap.

 

The early morning sunlight slants through the windows, around the curtains where it can and then almost through them where it cannot. They’re decoration, meant to obscure but not keep out the natural light, at a premium amongst the towering buildings and even more towering skyscrapers. Pale and bright, the sunlight spills over everything in reach - the table, the chairs, and Carol, and the curtains sway gently, the windows open which is surely _her_ doing. Only early spring, the breeze is pleasant but not entirely warm. _Refreshing_ , Carol had said as they had walked down the street yesterday, and _cold,_ Therese had retorted as she had pulled her coat tighter around herself and refused Carol’s offer to lend her her scarf. 

 

With the coffee ready, Therese pours herself some, grabs the milk out of the icebox, adds a dash to her coffee, an approximation, and stirs it with a spoon until it turns a lighter color, and leaves the utensil lying in the sink as she turns around. “Regrettably so,” she agrees. She won’t bother to refute that - she’s a notoriously late riser. Therese watches Carol watch her, feels herself grin as Carol’s eyes crinkle with mirth, caught, and raises the mug to take a sip. She’s barely showered, dressed, and eaten, yet Carol is clearly done with breakfast, and has on a simple, short-sleeved white dress, relaxed yet as always impeccably attired. “What have you got planned today?” And then, putting down her own cup, she offers, “Coffee?” 

 

Carol thinks for a moment before nodding. “Alright, thank you.” Therese turns around, gets out another mug and fills it almost to the brim as Carol continues. She leaves it black, puts the pot back on the burner and turns around, the mug quickly warming in her hands. “I was thinking I’d get started on that to-do list.”

 

Therese arches a brow. “You’ve got a to-do list?” It’s the first she’s heard of it. Her own drink forgotten, she walks over to Carol, carefully rotates the mug in her hands and holds it out handle-first, and only lets go after Carol curls her fingers tightly around it and takes it from her.

 

“Just little things to do around the apartment,” Carol says, taking a tentative sip. “Buy some nice frames for your photographs - the big ones I’ve still got sitting my desk. Take a look at getting more china, since we’ve only got enough plates for one person, really.” With an exasperated look, she adds reluctantly, “Stop by the hardware store and finally settle on a color for the living room and just get it over with already. What about you?”

 

Therese takes a step back, just out of Carol’s personal space to let her drink, but leans against the kitchen table. They had planned to take Rindy to the movies in the afternoon, but the weekend’s visit had been cut short - Rindy’s aunt on Harge’s side had dropped by for the weekend and could he come get her so that she could visit? Carol could hardly say no, either out of her love for Rindy or out of propriety. And so in Rindy’s absence, keeping busy outside the apartment is not a bad way to spend a Sunday now in disarray. Therese nods, watches as Carol puts down the coffee on her plate for lack of a coaster. “Let me grab a bite and I’ll be ready.”

 

Carol waves a hand dismissively, looking away. “Oh, you don’t have to waste your time buying paint with me.”

 

Almost on the very tail of Carol’s words, outside a car drives by, music through their open windows indecently loud - Therese turns, hears the noise of it but not the words, and looks back to Carol, breathes out at the interruption. Funny how she had taken to calling her her angel. If anyone it was Carol who looked the part, sitting bathed in sunlight. “I would love nothing more than to spend the morning picking out paint samples with you,” she refutes earnestly. The possibility of driving down to the hardware store, of poring over the little samples the size of business cards, and of choosing a color for their room - _theirs!_ \- has a cozy thrill to it. Domesticity had escaped her her entire life, and she had scorned the idea of it automatically out of rejection, leaving her own apartment unpainted, getting by on only one utilitarian plate and bowl and a handful of forks and knives, and keeping her chemicals in the icebox, though that had been partly out of necessity. 

 

But now, having had a taste of it, she understands. Nothing could make her as ridiculously happy as coming home just in time to catch Carol in the kitchen swaying along to the beat of whatever record she was listening to and with the most outrageously unassuming pink apron on, or rarer than diamonds to find Carol lying on her stomach in Rindy’s room with a hand propped under her chin and her feet kicked up behind her, Rindy sitting next to her and the two of them making up some little story about the people on the train that went around and around on the tiny twisting tracks.

 

With how closely she stands, Carol looks up at her, an odd change in their usual positions. At her words, at the way she shifts and lets her weight rest with the tilt of her hip, Therese has only to see a flicker of recognition, Carol understanding that the mood has changed quick as a wink, before Therese decides. Careful of the table, she moves, holds the hem of her skirt aside to keep it from catching on Carol’s knee as she straddles her, settling on her lap. Carol’s hands move to the small of her back, supporting her. Another week the room will be unpainted, the photographs left unframed, lunch and dinner plans fallen by the wayside and necessitating take out. 

 

“Of course, that can all be done next weekend,” Carol suggests. 

 

Therese loops arms around Carol’s shoulders, leans up against her, and feel Carol’s hands begin to slide lower. She swallows and feels the jerk of her pulse, body quickly snapped out of its lazy morning reverie. “Isn’t that what you said last weekend?”

 

“Yes, and the weekend before as well,” Carol remarks smartly with a squeeze, and then hands slip under her thighs, lift with her help and settle her closer. Therese tightens her legs around Carol, to keep her close and to mind her balance as Carol’s hands withdraw. “If I recall, it was also under similar circumstances.”

 

So close together, Carol hardly has to lean forward to kiss her, and Therese tries not to moan like a desperate young lover at the feel of her lips, of the press of them, maddeningly slow. Is this repayment for setting the to-do list’s completion back indefinitely yet again? Therese lets a hand linger on the back of Carol’s neck, fingertips trailing, but her supplication to the spot Carol is most sensitive results in no hastened motions, and unable to wait she twists fingers in silky curls, tugs as Carol parts her lips and deepens the kiss with a swipe of her tongue.

 

That goads her. Carol responds accordingly, and Therese is aware of the faint but undeniably immodest sounds of Carol’s quickened breath, of her own whimpers, particularly as she feels Carol’s hands slide up her sides, rest on her sternum, and then begin to make quick work of the buttons of her blouse. Therese breaks their kiss and sits back as much as safely possible in Carol’s lap, to watch as the fabric parts, as it falls to the side and bares skin, and as Carol’s eyes widen before she raises a brow. Though they’re partly in the sun, the breeze out of the windows threatens to raise goosebumps along her arms, and Therese shivers, pleased, at the hunger in Carol’s expression as she reaches up, trails fingertips over the thin and lacy fabric of her bra. Buying it had been an adventure. She had gone to one of the fancier stores that Carol had mentioned off-hand once, and spent a good hour picking out things. Of course it was a shame that Carol wasn’t there to sort through all the different racy kinds, to give her her opinion and to even chose some herself to take home - but the ability to surprise her had made up for it. Eyes closed, Therese tilts her head back as Carol brushes over a nipple, peaking at the chill and the touch and the sound of Carol’s voice, low and approving. “I don’t remember seeing this in the drawers.”

 

While she can’t afford to buy whatever she fancies, working at the Times means she no longer has to chose between paying for rent or clothing - only one, never both. “It’s new,” Therese replies proudly as Carol reaches up to draw her blouse over her shoulders and down her arms. Out of respect for the clean white color of it, it’s not tossed to the floor but instead dropped unfolded on the seat of the nearest empty chair. Sex between them is far from repetitive despite the amount of times they indulge in it, but every so often that they fall into bed, that she reaches under Carol’s dress or unbuttons her shirt to find her wearing something she’s never seen before, Therese wonders if Carol could ever possibly stop driving her mad with desire.

 

Now in nothing but her skirt and bra Therese wants to take Carol into her arms, to pull her close and feel the fabric of her dress against her skin and a thigh between her legs and _move_ , but Carol only stills the roll of her hips with a hand to her waist; her other hand runs up her back until she reaches the clasp of her bra. Therese rests her hands on Carol’s waist, feels the press of fingers along the band, steadying, and of a thumb swiping, fabric gathering, pulling minutely, before eyelets and hooks come unconnected and the band around her ribs goes slack. Satisfaction is clear on Carol’s face at her single-handed accomplishment, and Therese closes her eyes once more, leans in to kiss her as the bra, too, is slipped off, replaced just as quickly by Carol’s hands. 

 

And the hands, as usual, are cold. Therese knows she twitches under Carol’s touch slightly before accustoming herself to the feel of her. Carol fondles almost pensively, enough to have Therese arch up into her touch to hurry her along. Even in the middle of summer, she could reach out on a night where they lay close but not touching in bed, take Carol’s hand, and marvel at the fact that they simply would not warm. 

 

Carol breaks their kiss, lets her hands fall away only to reach behind her. Therese balances on her lap carefully, lets Carol take the mug from off the plate and place it on the empty seat of the nearest unoccupied chair - Carol snags the breakfast plate off the table next, fork balancing on it, and moves that, as well, and places the vase full of flowers on the floor. It’s only when Carol takes her glass of water, slick with condensation, that she pauses tortuously, doesn’t put it down, and instead takes a drink.

 

Therese watches as full lips touch glass, as Carol tilts it, watches her drink the last of her water. What game is she playing? She did not begin to clear the table because she was a struck by a sudden urge to tidy up or want for a drink of water - they’ve skipped entire meals before and let chores go undone for weeks in favor of staying in bed together. Why would today, _now_ be any different? Feeling a whimper of frustration bubble up in her throat, Therese rolls her hips, seeking pressure, any pressure, and as Carol drinks the last of her water and puts the cup down a thigh presses up between her legs, soothing as she grinds down upon it, and a hand strokes her cheek before Carol kisses it - _I know, darling. I’m sorry_. But quickly enough, with the table clear they maneuver - Therese loses her skirt and panties along the way, and manages to unbutton Carol’s dress, baring the swell of her breasts, before she settles on the kitchen table, the sturdy, light wood of it sun-warmed against her skin.

 

Therese sits back, palms against the table, and realizes how very clothed Carol is. She looks very fine in her dress, but so far Carol has strung her along and she’s been happy to follow. She smiles, looks down and away, and opens her thighs coquettishly. The reaction is instantaneous. She watches through her lashes as Carol moves as if mesmerized to stand between them, pressed as close as the table will allow her and with her hands coming to rest on her knees. 

 

“Therese,” she begins, and she can hear the sudden uncertainty in it, so rare and not one bit welcome. The urge to tantalize is gone in an instant, Therese wonders briefly if she’s misread everything. Has she misunderstood and took Carol’s reluctance for teasing? But Carol continues gamely despite herself, reaches back behind herself and turns around with her glass again. She tilts the cup with nothing but ice left inside - her previous pause to drink what was left of the water clear now, otherwise they’d have a puddle on their hands - and reaches inside with two fingers. Even such a juvenile gesture seems collected and purposeful when Carol does it, and she sets the cup down on the seat, a single cube of melting ice now held between thumb and forefinger. Therese feels a deep and sudden throb of want between her legs, an inkling of what Carol is asking dawning on her. In all of the times that they’ve moved together, Carol must have noticed the reaction her damned cold fingers have gotten out of her. In her grasp the melting ice must begin to drip, and Carol turns her wrist to catch a droplet of water sliding down her finger, lets it pool in her palm as she asks, “Would you like to… ?“

 

And she nods before Carol can finish, because with Carol there is never a moment of unpleasant surprise; not a single instant of discomfort; not one iota both during and after of shame or humiliation. No - only excitement and pleasure between them, even at their most passionate. “Yes,” Therese breathes, to make her intentions clearer than day, and Carol smiles gratefully. With that Therese reaches out, hooks fingers around the opened neck of her dress - as Therese lies on her back, she draws Carol down with her, feels Carol lean over her, still standing but with a forearm braced against the table just next to her, hips pressing between her legs. She thinks of how they had met, and of the infinite ways it could have gone wrong and then of the one way it went right. To think that they could have missed each other, that it was more likely to happen that way than the way it did, makes everything all the more precious. She moves under Carol with eagerness. There was nothing about it that she could take for granted - certainly not the way that Carol leans over her, that her curls fall forward, sweeping against her cheeks, and nearly obscure the sight of her raising the ice cube to her mouth, of a finger slipping it between her parted lips before closing over it. 

 

Carol bows her head, and Therese can’t help but roll her hips against her as Carol’s lips brush against her neck, only a fleeting touch to raise goosebumps against her skin, before Carol presses her lips just under her ear and kisses her. And then Therese gasps at the feel of it, grasps at Carol’s arm in her shock, because talented Carol kisses the melting ice against her skin, presses it _cold_ and slick against her, and if she learned this in bed with someone else Therese could not possibly care less.

 

The table has lost its warmth but no matter because Carol is against her, a hand cupping her jaw to tilt her face closer to her own, the other hand grasping the back of her thigh, hiking her leg over her hip, and so very warm through her thin white dress. Therese is aware of every involuntary sound she makes - not only because even a gasp sounds shatteringly loud to her own ears in the apartment’s relative silence, but because of what it does to Carol. Carol is always so immaculately composed, and Therese loves her for it. But in private, Therese is afforded a glimpse at what she can do to Carol. She has only to find her in their home, interrupt whatever Carol is working on by leaning over her shoulder and asking, or on naughtier days to toy with the hem of Carol’s skirt and deliver whispered hot in her ear an artfully desperate _please, Carol,_ to realize how much that Carol truly wants her. 

 

As much as she enjoys teasing her though, it is never, ever done in public. They've had enough of prying eyes. 

 

Carol kisses down her neck, drags the ice with her, reaches the curve of her shoulder and without pause changes direction and dips down, trails cold kisses along her collarbone. It’s messy work, and Therese feels a drop of water slip and run and leave a cold, wet track down her shoulder. It’s melting from the heat of her body and from Carol’s mouth around it, and Carol seems to realize it, too. Urgently she trails the ice over the swell of her breast, and Therese braces herself as Carol finally draws it over her nipple, as she sucks in a breath and feels herself peak quick and hard at the sensation. Carol cups her other breast with a hand, fingertips teasing, and Therese pants as she swirls the ice around the hard nub.

 

All too soon the ice is gone, used to the very end and leaving nothing but Carol’s mouth against her. Not a bad trade off, admittedly - Therese arches her back and whimpers as Carol teases a nipple between her fingertips and laves her tongue against the other. 

 

Her body is not the only thing that Carol craves about her, but she has now the consciousness to understand the physical appeal of women, of Carol. It is so deep and simple that it shocks her that she had never comprehended it, that she could have met Abby or Genevieve on a jaunt on the town and smiled and nodded a hello and never understood more, never read a look and a word for something more, never taken the train of thought to completion. She had wondered if it was natural to go through life so unmoved by anything and anyone, except perhaps by seeing a particularly good photograph. Those movies about love had always felt so stilted, yet everyone else seemed to enjoy them. And then Carol had waltzed into her life with a smile that was anything but nervous, and it was as if she could feel something of great importance were just around the corner, eagerly waiting for her to take one step more and meet it.

 

Looking back, it was so clear she could almost laugh - she was fond of talking to Carol, yes, and then some. She shivers contentedly, and understands completely how Carol can spend so long caressing her breasts or pass an entire afternoon worshipping between her legs. A flutter of curtains out of the corner of her eye, and Therese shivers at the breeze. There was nothing better on a cold night than to press as close as possible to Carol, to draw the blankets around them both and grow warm and sleepy, tucked against her shoulder. But the cold had its own perks - catching a cab together in winter and in the privacy of the back seat letting Carol clasp her hands over hers to warm them, or the satisfaction of letting Carol finally lend her a scarf and draping it around her neck, imbued with the faded scent of her perfume. She would have never thought of it, but that ice had been so nice. “Carol - ”

 

“I’ve got it.”

 

Carol disappears for only a moment, comes back with another ice cube held rakishly between her teeth like a cigarette before she settles against her, bows her head and presses it just under her breast. She's thin, Therese knows, and can feel this more solid piece of ice run over her ribs, ticklish, particularly as Carol’s hand mirrors the path on her other side. Fingers span over the curve of her waist, and Carol’s mouth draws the ice to her navel, blonde hair sweeping over her skin, and draws it around teasingly as Therese presses her hips up. 

 

It is obvious that Carol turns her on, and rightly so. They don’t share an apartment like roommates do. There is a distinct lack of delineation between _her things_ and _Carol’s things_ that mingle throughout their home; there is an intimacy in their touch that would hardly be proper between friends even of the same sex; and there is only one bed, well- and often-used. Though they share the apartment, the word couldn’t be more wrong. A few drops of water from the ice cube begin to gather in the dip of her navel, ice again melting too quick for Carol to lap it all up, and Therese shifts, feels a good deal of it tilt and run off to the side, over her waist. Before meeting Carol, despite her lack of experience in the matter she hadn’t been so modest as to have never touched herself before. It had merely never done much good. A hand half-heartedly massaging her own breast, another between her legs unsure what exactly the point of it all was, forearm cramping halfway to nothing before giving up and turn over in between the sheets to sleep. It had been as exciting - and fulfilling - as washing her hair. 

 

With Carol it is almost embarrassing how wet she gets, and Therese is thankful for the cover the melting ice gives her. With Carol that first night together, in that hotel that would hold only the loftiest estimations from her despite what any rating in any guidebook might give it, she had shocked herself, at her loudness, at the wetness between her thighs that Carol had luxuriated in and encouraged, at her own overwhelming need that she had somehow inexplicably, impossibly been insensitive to her entire life. And now with Carol between her legs it’s impossible to press her thighs together, and she imagines she’s practically dripping as Carol finally kisses her way down her stomach. As she reaches the juncture of her thighs the ice is little more but a colorless sliver against her skin, nearly gone as Carol licks it up.

 

Therese sighs, sorry to see the ice go, and watches as Carol slips off of her, reaches behind herself, draws up a chair, and sits. Arms slip under and wrap around her thighs, urge her closer carefully and then over her shoulders as Carol tilts her head, rests a cheek against her thigh and closes her eyes. Therese has no qualms about laying open before her so, and strangely never has. Even in Waterloo, totally inexperienced, there was only the urgency of the moment barreling along almost faster than she could cling to, the overwhelming gravity of sharing the most intimate of gestures, and awe at the woman who had seemed as a goddess to choose her serendipitously and fatefully all at once as her lover. 

 

Carol’s hair, having been dragged over her slick stomach, has gotten damp, the ends of a few soaked strands slicked against her cheek, a darker blonde, before she reaches up to tuck locks behind her ear. But a tip of a strand stays slicked against her jaw, following the curve of it as Carol opens her eyes. The front of her white dress is damp in places where they’ve pressed together.

 

As Carol finally presses lips to her, the ice is gone but she retains a coolness that has Therese gasping sharply, hips jerking. But luckily Carol keeps her grip, and Therese relaxes against the table, raises arms in repose above herself as she arches, feels the press of the back of her hand against warm wood. Carol is achingly gentle, and Therese resigns herself eagerly to it - they can make love like a wildfire, burning quick and bright and hot, but it had been clear from the outset that this would be the smoldering kind reminiscent of embers, not flames. Carol’s tongue slicks through her folds, tasting, and it is not a teasing touch which Therese alternatively craves or curses depending upon her mood but a contented and soft one that conveys more than words could - the joy at having all the rest of the sunny Sunday morning to while away doing whatever they please and a place of their own in which to do so.

 

Carol’s lips are cold, and the tip of her tongue, cool too, and Therese is all too aware of her own keening gasps, and of Carol’s fingers digging ever so lightly into her thighs in response. Carol, so utterly charming, yet unbelievably devious at times - how can she repay such a clever move. Carol who grows cold ever faster than she does, her fur coat making its appearance again towards early fall and not disappearing until mid-spring, may or may not find the idea of Therese pressing cold kisses against her enticing, and with a clearer head later she really must think of something else to surprise her with. 

 

At long last Carol presses messily against her with long, firm licks, and Therese scrabbles for purchase on the table but finds nothing - unlike their bed there are no sheets for her to grasp, no pillows to muffle her moans with. Had that been part of Carol’s little plan, too? To have her naked and wanting, spread out for her to enjoy? If so, Therese can’t fault her. If only she’d thought of it first. She moans as Carol laves more eagerly, generosity tinged with her own want, and can only hope that none of the next-door neighbors have their windows open on such a lovely spring day, too. 

 

Carol’s had her on edge for so long that she brings her to orgasm quickly. Carol purses lips around her, licks and sucks and doesn’t stop, and the feeling that has thrummed just under her skin from the first moment Carol had touched her surfaces again and finally crescendos fast and hard. Therese is aware of herself sitting up, trembling terribly, of reaching out to card her fingers through Carol’s hair and pull her closer, and Carol keeps her tongue on her benevolently as she comes, works a sobbing gasp out of her and keeps laving. Therese lies back limply on the table, just coherent enough not to land too roughly, and closes her eyes as the second wave comes right on the heels of the first. 

 

As it washes over her, leaving her almost stunned and then slowly warm and sleepy with the sun coming in from the window, she feels Carol rearrange her grip, feels her hold tighter around her legs and her shoulders press harder against the backs of her thighs given that she currently has no strength left with which to hold herself up. Carol works a last gasp and a jerk out of her with a swipe of her tongue, now grown sensitive - she still lies back with eyes closed, but as Carol lets her rest against the table and slips away from her Therese can almost see her sitting back in her seat, can most definitely imagine her running the pad of a fingertip over her lips, and then licking that wetness off.

 

Thoughts already running through her head, she wonders if they’ve got any more ice waiting in the icebox and whether Carol would let her use it on her, and suddenly can’t wait for warmer weather and summer. “How selfish of me,” Carol says suddenly, interrupting her thoughts, and Therese makes an inquiring noise. “We’re halfway to lunch and you still haven’t eaten.”

 

Therese almost laughs as she opens her eyes, finds it in herself to sit up. Without Carol between them her legs are free to dangle over the edge of the table, and she shifts, crosses her legs for a hint of decorum and catches Carol looking at her. If it’s between a meal and Carol, she’ll always choose Carol. “I’ll manage,” she assures her, and Carol raises a brow disbelievingly. 

 

“I’ll hold you to that around two o’clock.”

 

She’s probably right. Eventually they’ll have to break for her to eat. She’d only had half a sandwich and too much to drink last night, and Therese shrugs, reaches out as Carol stands - her fingertips reach out and brush her hip to turn Carol toward her, and whatever Carol had planned to do is considered for only a moment and then forgotten in favor of turning back toward her, nestling once again between legs that part for her.

 

“I still do want to pick out paint with you, though,” Therese says as hands cup her jaw, as Carol simply watches her, grey eyes soft. She had been serious about that. But Therese reaches out, lets her hands settle on her hips and tug Carol closer, and adds with a caveat that makes her intentions clear as day, and that has Carol kiss her eagerly - “ _Eventually_.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
